Uthar Ayrin
Email: arbryan@cox.net Description Eye Color: Grey Hair Color: Black Height: 6'0 Weight: 185 Age: 17 Place of Origin: Andor Stats Rank: Tower Guard Weaopon Score: 13 Philosophy: The Flame and the Void Primary Weapon: Sabres Secondary Weapon: Martial Arts Tertiary Weapon: Bola History In the deep forest at the foot of the Black Hills a leaf fell from the security of its branch and began to drift slowly towards the ground. The falling was not the beginning. The Wheel of Time has neither beginnings nor endings. But it was a beginning. The leaf fell past branches and other leaves as it made its descent. It broke free of the high branches that formed the overhead canopy and nearly reached the ground before a gust of wind whipped it chaotically through the air. The gust carried the leaf over the river Ivo in northern Andor, where it landed softly on the water. Torn and spinning it flowed down the river and past a small town located at the split. The leaf continued on until finally it came to a stop upon the shoulder near a black haired young man crouched behind a small shrub. He was stalking a rabbit and had the animal locked in his sights through the branches of his cover. Without taking his grey eyes from his prey, the dark haired hunter concentrated. He raised his bow and drew an arrow to his cheek. Free from all emotion it was just the hunter and the prey. He released the arrow and knew before it cleared the bow that his aim was true. In the quiet dawn the sound of several horses pounding through the forest was as loud as if someone had begun banging pots with wooden spoons, and the silence made it sound as if it were being done right at the hunter's ear. The rabbit heard it too and it darted off leaving the arrow racing along the dirt and vanishing into the undergrowth. Like the rabbit, the hunter had already changed his focus and was moving swiftly along the edge of the river trying to keep pace with the strangers while remaining out of sight. He was only able to catch small glimpses of them between the trees, but they were like nothing he had ever seen. There were four of them. Two smaller forms that rode with their hoods pulled low and two larger that wore cloaks that hurt his eyes to look at. The cloaks made them appear all but invisible, as if their heads were riding over the horses without the benefit of a body. Color shifting cloaks like those only existed in the stories, and the hunter smiled to think that a real adventure had finally found its way into Abor. The horses quickly outpaced him, and he slowed to a walk while his mind recalled everything he knew about Aes Sedai and their Warders. He knew only a little, the same stories every child in Abor had heard growing up about Tar Valon and the Power. The stories made them out to be larger than life and if they were headed straight towards Abor it wasn't by accident. In fact, if they changed their course only slightly they would be riding straight towards his home. His father and mother would likely be there, and he doubted that either would believe him if they didn't see the strangers with their own eyes. Both of his parents had seen to his education and they had both strengthened his mind and perception so that he did not fall victim to what others said or the face value of what was seen, even with his own eyes. His father had taught him to move with stealth, stalk, and track, fight with his hands and feet, hunt with a bow, and how to fight with swords. It was his hope that his son would one day take over for him as the protector of the town and to wisely sit on the village council. His mother had taught him how to read and write and the use of each herb that she spent most of each day tending. Together they had left him little time to actually enjoy his youth, but it just taught him to cherish every free moment that he had. He would tell them what he had seen, and then they would want to see for themselves these strangers that had come. They would not call them Aes Sedai and Warder until they knew that for certain. He shouldn't either. They had often cautioned him on the danger of assumptions and their difficulty to be changed once made. As he approached the cottage that he called home, Uthar had a strange feeling that something was wrong. Instead of going straight to the door he remained a short distance into the forest, using the trees and underbrush as cover. He circled the farm and on the opposite side of the house he noticed four horses. The riders must be inside. Use your mind, not your eyes. The voice of his father drifted through his head. He looked again and noticed that the door was not just open but hung at an awkward angle. One of the hinges had been broken and where the handle used to be was a hole. He pulled back from the tree line a little more and concealed himself in the underbrush and was thankful he had when the four strangers burst from the house. They mounted their horses, and after a quick scan of the area they rode off towards the north. As much as he wanted to rush into the house he held his position and silently counted to one hundred. At sixty, one of the Warders rode back into the small clearing mad a circuit around the cottage scanning the forest as he went before riding back into the forest after his companions. At one hundred, Uthar slipped out of his hiding place and crossed the open ground to the porch. He was careful to avoid the first two steps, because of the noise they would release. His father had always known when someone had arrived and Uthar could still recall the day that he had figured out how. It was the last day he had used either step. At the door he took a deep breath before stepping inside. The house was in shambles. The kitchen table had been overthrown and there were slash marks on every wall he could see. The bow was raised and ready as he began to search the house. A quick scan of the main floor revealed nothing, and as he came upon the door that led down to the cellar he noticed a tiny flickering light. He descended the stairs and entered his parent's bedroom, where he found his father hunched on the ground beside a small lantern. His sabres were resting on open hands and he was bleeding from more than a dozen wounds. His head bobbed as he tried to raise it to look upon his son. Uthar moved one of the swords and knelt down by his father, wrapping his arms around him. Tears were already streaking down his face. "You're going to be alright, aren't you? Where's mother? No, don't try to move father. Who were they?" Uthar's father wheezed and coughed before he could get out an answer, and after his chest rose and fell painfully a couple times he managed. "An-swers. Un-der me. Your mo-ther's, gone. Re-mem-ber..." And with that his head rolled forward so that his chin was resting upon a chest that no longer moved. Uthar sat there in silence with his arms wrapped around his father for what felt an eternity. When he woke up early he had thought today was going to be special, but it turned out to be the worst day of his life. He should have been here. He could have helped. His father was dead and despite the need to mourn he still had so many questions. He carefully lifted his father onto the bed and in the light from the lantern noticed that one of the floorboards was missing. Answers. Under me. Uthar tore at the floor and several more pieces easily came away revealing two long slender chests. The first one took him a moment to open, but when he managed to finally see what was inside his eyes grew large. The first thing he noticed was a thick leather belt that had a scabbard attached to each side. Rising out of each scabbard was the hilt of a sword. Uthar knew that his father was an exceptional swordsman, but he had no idea that he actually owned swords like these. Each weapon was black, with the grip being wrapped in soft grey pigskin leather being the only other color. At the base of each handle was a large onyx stone that seemed to drink the light and make the room appear even darker than it already was. He loosened them in their scabbards and then slowly drew them out. The black steel of the swords made a slight hissing sound as they were extracted. They both had wide sweeping blades that were thirty-five inches in length and felt amazingly light in his hands. He had never heard of black steel and wondered where his father had ever found such magnificent weapons. He carefully tested the sharpness and cut his finger despite his caution. Sliding the blades back into their sheaths he noticed that they were also dark black leather on one side, and the same grey leather as the grips on the other. They were sabres, though they were definitely unlike any he had heard of before. He also found several leather pouches each full of gold and silver coins from a different kingdom. As he was about to close the lid of the first chest something caught his eye. He hadn't noticed it before and it was still difficult to see, even looking straight at it. His hands closed onto soft silky material and as he raised it from the chest he realized that it was a cloak like he had seen on the two strangers. It was the color shifting cloak of a Warder. In the second chest Uthar found a heavy white-gold signet ring with the same symbol that even now he was aware of on center of his upper back just below his neckline. It was the Ayrin sigil. His own mark was more than a simple tattoo and looked as if the art were alive beneath his skin. Four arms seemed to grow in the shape of an X out of a small black disc in the center. Each arm ended in a hand that gripped a black sabre, with the blades all running counter clockwise in the same direction and coming to rest tip-to-hilt forming the inner circle of the sigil. The outer circle was a thick band of white gold, as if the moon itself wreathed the rest. His father had never told him what the sigil meant, just that males in the Ayrin line had all been born with the same mark. The chest also contained several outfits of strange clothing. Tight black breeches, soft grey shirts, some black vests, two cloaks that could be worn either way - black slashed with grey or grey slashed with black - each with a clasp that was a larger version of the signet ring design, and a dark black coat. They were of an unknown style and the soft supple material was like leather yet finer than anything he had seen, and felt more durable than the sturdy clothes that he was wearing. The only items remaining at the bottom of the chest were five small books. Flipping through the books he found that they were in some foreign language that he had never seen before. Each page had images that depicted a man holding two swords and he had the feeling they were instructional. Some of the images from the first book were all too familiar, but he had never seen some of the stances and movements hinted at by the rest. Most of the pictures in the last two books showed an opponent with four targets, or six, or eight, each being struck simultaneously by the same person. The impossibilities didn't stop there and Uthar's head began to hurt just looking at the images. He spent the majority of the afternoon digging a grave. The spot he had chosen to bury his father was beneath the tree that had been planted by his parents when they arrived in Abor, long before he was born. He had never found his mother's body, and that fact disturbed him deeply. After his father had been buried he was faced with the most difficult decision of his life. The first decision he would be making as a man. What do I do now? There was only one place he could think of that might have the information he needed, Tar Valon. And if his fears were correct about how his parents died he would need to be on his guard. After a sorrow filled visit to the mayor of Abor, Uthar set out on horse back across The Black Hills and finally arrived in Tar Valon. He was there to learn. To honor the memory of his father by following in his footsteps, and the light willing he would learn what he could about the life and death of his parents. Category:WS 13 Category:Tower Guard Category:Biographies Category:Warder Bios